When the sky turned black and the men in my family were lost in dreams, I gathered all the bottles in my mother’s supply and slipped outside to the water’s edge. One by one, I hurled the moon-shaped jars into the sea. One by one, they hit the waves and sank forever to a watery grave. Each quiet splash felt like the creaking open of an old, heavy door, its iron hinges rusted from ages of disuse. I said a prayer to the Old Gods to make me ready for whatever lay beyond.
